


Plains and meadows

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Historical, International Relations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hungary and Ukraine from the end of World War II onwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plains and meadows

_Throw over your man, I say, and come._  
― Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville-West

 

In some respects, the war has long been over. There are no open sores left as far as her good eye can see, and the hairline cracks dotting her bones seem to have fused as well, leaving unbroken tissue behind. Hers is an able body, or so she's been told, which doesn't seem to account for the dull pain that keeps her company as though she had lost a limb or two. 

"Care to fucking explain _that?_ "

Her words resemble a single pin hitting the floor, neither here nor there. They echo against the shell of the building, among broken boilers and rusty pieces of machinery lying around her feet as she scrubs her anger away.

"It works as a line of production. The more the merrier." The answer reaches her ears before she sees Ukraine rounding the washtub, a dingy bundle of cloth under her arm, her sleeves all rolled up and ready for work. 

Hungary pretends she hasn't heard nor seen a thing, but it's an impossible task from the start. It isn't long before Ukraine taps the rim and takes a deep breath, chest bursting at the seams in tell-tale fashion, and Hungary can tell she's about to sing like Russkies are wont to do when they're either blind drunk or sober.

Ukraine's voice is but a tremor at the beginning, but it grows strong and heartfelt, if not particularly virtuous. Once she has reached momentum, she sings without a care in the world, and all Hungary wants is to toss her on the muddy snow and spoil her uniform's trousers, well-worn but clean.

Unlike Comrade Big Sister, Hungary wears an ill-fitting summer dress and a worn out coat, both of them unsuited for the winter that won't quite leave. In contrast, it must be springtime for Ukraine, for she smiles from time to time for no reason at all, all the while Hungary keeps washing strangers' clothes until her knuckles are one scrub away from tearing open. 

A whisper, then. "Aren't you hungry?"

Her back feels like it will break in two, but Hungary stands tall and looks at Ukraine in the eye, at the dirty blonde hair peering under her cap and the way her jacket seems tailor-made for her body. Hungary glares at her, in fact, wondering just where exactly is she hiding Subcarpathia, as though there was a way to scoop it back and run away with it unnoticed.

"Are you mocking me?"

Ukraine smiles, although her eyes do not. "Come," she says, and her grasp is firm around Hungary's wrist, to the point that it's easy to imagine her holding a sniper's rifle, her aim steady. 

_Bang._

Her mug goes like this against the bucket they are using as a table, _bang._ Hungary's hairs stand on end, but she doesn't shake any more than she would do in an air raid drill. Instead, she takes a sip of the soup. It's watered-down and tasteless, but it's warm.

"Eat, eat," Ukraine says in a singsong tone, and it's a surprise to see her hands wrap around the chipped enamel of her own mug, long delicate fingers that remind her of Austria's, somehow. From up close it's easy to see the traces of war and hunger on her face, thin wrinkles around the corners of her mouth.

For a moment, Hungary considers asking her whether she has taken a look at herself. _Eat,_ for God's sake. What is it about her ilk that they act charitably one moment and break your bones for kicks the very next? "I don't get you," Hungary says, wondering whether the Lord's name works like a curse for the reds. " _By God,_ I swear I don't."

.

She sees Ukraine in the neighborhood one day, not looking any better but with a little strut to her walk. It's the rifle hanging from her shoulder, Hungary decides, but she doesn't fear her weapon nor her skill. Ukraine is predictable as much as any human can be instead of wildly random. Your classic girl next door instead of a crazy bitch. Next to her siblings, she's the sum of all the things they are not, and that's something Hungary can deal with.

Once Hungary's sure no one lies in wait left or right, she beckons Ukraine. "I always pay my debts, you see." There's pálinka in one of her hands and two glasses in the other. It ends up being a good enough offer, because Ukraine accepts.

When they go inside, Hungary gets a whiff of the forests and the alpine meadows she has lost, and she has to restrain herself not to hold Ukraine still, a chip of glass against the pulsing vein on her neck. _Give it back, give it back._ Alas, such entreaties never worked out.

All of a sudden Ukraine brushes the tip of her shoulder, and although it catches her unawares, Hungary doesn't jolt. "Your hair is growing back."

Hungary's lips curve slightly. "When it doesn't break and fall like dead fur."

"I used to have it long."

"Like your sister."

"But it didn't suit me," Ukraine says, and Hungary doubts it, for although her face is round, she must have looked like a countryside beauty with long rye-colored ringlets framing her full cheeks. "Out in the fields—"

"—it gets in the way," she completes the sentence. Ukraine nods. "Still, I never considered cutting it, until it caught fire." Hungary reaches the base of her neck, following the path of the scarring down her spine. It has almost disappeared by now, and she can't help the harsh laugh that comes out of her mouth. It doesn't even sound like her own, but Ukraine doesn't comment on it.

They talk at length about dozens of things that don't matter, and at times it's strange to converse with the enemy in this way, all in all relaxed. Ukraine doesn't try to sell her on communist factoids. Hungary doesn't tell her she's but her brother's puppet, her seat in the United Nations notwithstanding.

Outside, a car stops to pick her up, and when Ukraine stands to leave, the medals on her chest twinkle. Hungary's fingers itch to rip them off, but she doesn't. What she does instead is to wait until the car turns around a corner, and then follow its trail to a makeshift camp where Russia awaits.

Her brother's shadow looms large, but Ukraine doesn't seem to notice. She tiptoes around the bonfire, where chunks of finely carved furniture and thick, crude logs burn alike.

"Little brother," Ukraine whispers.

Russia points to the specks escaping from the flames before they turn into ash. "Snowflakes," he says, chuckling. 

The wind carries their words until they fill Hungary's ears, her heart drumming against her chest. It would be far too easy to go and kill him now, if only he could die. If only. She wonders whether the thought has ever crossed Ukraine's mind as she starved and buried her dead, one by one. 

Looking at her, it would seem it's not the case. There's simply no trace of malice in Ukraine's touch when Russia holds his scarf close to him and rests his head on her lap. She even ruffles his hair as though nothing were the matter, as though Russia hadn't punished many of her children in the only way he knew how. Her touch is gentle. Loving, even.

Ukraine's eyes, however, are focused elsewhere. She's looking past Russia, Hungary realizes, as though she were trying to find the sun that by now has long set.

.

"Let us welcome our new comrade," Russia says one day, but he might as well have said _toy._ Watching Russia's paws on his feeble shoulders, Hungary can't help but think of Prussia as a pliant lump of clay screaming to be molded, and it's frankly pathetic.

Russia's grip is strong, and Prussia's skin is pale and prone to bruise as it has always been, so she can't help it. The warmth spreads over her belly unprompted and tickles her heart, even though intellectually she finds the whole affair disgusting. It's so like Russia to ruin even the good things.

Hungary excuses herself to take a drag, and once outside, she lets the smoke fill her lungs until she's warm. It seems to be always winter when Russia's around.

"Throw him over," Ukraine says, emerging from the shadows. 

Hungary doesn't drop the cigarette, but lets it hang from her mouth. "Him? He's nothing of mine," she says, imagining the marks of Russia's fat fingers on Prussia's thighs, and the shape of his parted mouth.

"Throw over all of your men."

Hungary raises an eyebrow, looking at all the details that compose Ukraine. Her cheeks are bright red from a shot of vodka too many, and her unassuming stance contrasts with her gaze, so blue and so fierce, despite the tears pooling at the corner of her eyes.

 _If I were a man,_ Hungary thinks for the most fleeting of moments. "All of the Eastern Bloc is ready for your brother's taking. Shouldn't I throw him over too?" Ukraine goes silent, and it's not so much a disappointment, but the kind of weak-willed approach that Hungary hates. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

As Hungary turns to leave, Ukraine takes hold of her coat, wrapping her fingers around Hungary's arm from behind, so that Russia doesn't see. It's but a whisper, but in the quiet of the night it's easy to hear.

.

In the end, overthrowing Russia isn't even doable, let alone anything else. In her mind, the tanks still roll through Budapest even though the battle has come to an end, making the ground below her feet unsteady as if she were standing on quicksand. She has to get a grip on herself to get through the day, to remember the supplies arriving from Poland and the news that reached her from Austria, where some of her children have made it safely.

"Those are the things that make me forget about the troops marching from the northeast, across the Tisza where you lay." Her words come in a hiss, but it can hardly be a surprise for Ukraine, who blinks back tears but holds her gaze otherwise, bearing the weight of Hungary's body as she pins Ukraine to the floor.

"Hungary," Ukraine's voice is level, but Hungary only pays attention to her own ragged breathing, to the low rumble of the tank treads crushing her streets and dyeing them red. 

_If I were a man, if I were but the lowest of dogs,_ Hungary tells herself, but the mere thought is disgraceful. She could never maul Ukraine. She could never do that, not even to the likes of her. 

"It's harder than it seems, I should know," Ukraine whispers, closing her lips around the strands of hair that fall on her face from above. 

Hungary sneers, punching the wooden floor into splinters. "You're lucky you're not wearing your uniform."

.

The next time Hungary sees her is thirty years later, prostrate on a bed. Mute. Her chest falls and rises ever so slightly, and whatever words Hungary had ready leave her in haste. It seems crass to mention how life seems to be treating her better when Ukraine lies still, a strip of gangrene slitting her throat.

Having nothing else to say, Hungary places her hand next to Ukraine's. She takes it, perhaps too soon for Hungary's liking, and points to her nightstand. Years ago she could have refused the request, but the Cyrillic alphabet is no longer a mystery to her, only an eyesore. 

"Do you like folk tales?" Hungary leafs through the book before settling for a story of dusty roads and clever little foxes, interlacing her fingers with Ukraine's icy ones.

.

"I'm acknowledging you," Hungary says, her back straight against the armchair and legs crossed. Wisps of steam rise from her coffee, fresh and out of a real French press.

"What?" Ukraine seems to be always out of breath these days, but Hungary doesn't fault her for it. She remembers all too well what it felt to kiss the border fence goodbye and the joy of watching the Wall fall down. In a word, exhilaration.

"Officially, I mean. We'll establish diplomatic relations with Kiev." 

"What? Hungary?"

"Are you deaf? Us! Diplomatic relations!" Hungary screams at the phone. "Let's talk about my children! Living over there!"

"Yes, let's—!" What follows Ukraine's excited chat is but the dial tone.

"Shit," Hungary says.

.

"NATO, and then the European Union, huh?" After curling the corners of the documents she has brought with her, Ukraine twiddles her fingers, then puts her hands crossed over her lap, where she crumples the fabric of her skirt. "It sounds good. I mean, it's good for you."

"It is, thank you. Listen, now is not a good moment, I'm very busy," Hungary says, looking outside her window and at her clock, hoping Ukraine takes the hint. 

She doesn't.

Hungary lets out a sigh, and taking Ukraine's hand, she squeezes it hard enough to bring the point home. "It'll be alright. I'll still be your neighbor at the end of the day, don't you see? That's not going to change."

Ukraine looks away and fiddles with Hungary's sleeve instead, pulling a heartstring or two in the process. "I hope so."

.

"It's funny how a glimpse of nature can deceive you into thinking there's nothing wrong with the world at large," Hungary says, stretching out her fingers and toes. A field of flowers in the middle of nowhere is all it has taken for her to forget the cacophony of the city, the voices of her neighbors, car horns a-tooting through the streets—

—the sound of leather boots marching through Buda Castle as though the war had never ended.

So much has changed since she last felt at the top of the world, the most diligent student in all of the Eastern Bloc. Moreover, something deep inside Hungary tells her that the spirit of the times is turning. Against her, perhaps. And yet right now the air she breathes is pure and entirely peaceful, even if her reality back home is anything but.

"I told you it was beautiful here," Ukraine says. 

"Bewitching," Hungary corrects, truly in the moment even though she doesn't have two forints to spare. Then again, neither does she have pockets, she's wearing a light cotton dress pooled around her waist and facing the sun.

Ukraine braids wild flowers into Hungary's hair and weaves the stories Hungary tells into a wreath around her head, as though it were possible to exorcize the past and the present through such simple means. "Don't leave a single one out," Hungary says, although she will shake the blossoms off her hair before the evening comes, a rain of petals instead of the scraps of paper she would write on and then burn. 

For now, they stay, if only because she's never felt more beautiful. "Now tell me about you."

"Once upon a time," Ukraine starts, a tiny little smile on her lips, and although Hungary remembers each grievance, she doesn't have rancor to spare. She just listens, and smiles along Ukraine when she mentions Poland, so youthful and bright.

"Would you believe how easy it was to say goodbye?" Hungary says, brushing Ukraine's soft stomach with her tongue, learning to map her body. "Somehow it was easier to leave than I would have thought."

 _You should understand, at least you,_ she had said to Prussia, who once shared her same fate, whose towns are mostly empty now, whose youth is angry too, lost. But he has Germany, and she has no one. Not even Austria, whose gentle demeanor doesn't match the look on his eyes, which she can't easily meet anymore. 

When she leaves, no one bothers to chase her. They only try to make her see things for what they say they are, but their voices grow smaller and smaller as time goes by, until one day she can no longer hear them.

One day, too, she learns to be fine with that. 

"I wonder," Ukraine says then, touching Hungary's face, "whether changing someone like you can take so little effort."

Hungary lets out a high-pitched laugh, she laughs not to salt the earth. "And who's that someone?" she asks Ukraine, who seems to have a point. At least she's used to going back to her brother no matter what.

"A rebel child," Ukraine says, touching her so gently that Hungary wants to believe her, but hopes and dreams seem foolish things right now.

"I wonder something else." Hungary doesn't dare to say it out loud, but her nails dig into the dirt, and she remembers a simpler time and how nomad blood runs through her veins, even now. The call from the East is strong, and for a moment she truly asks herself whether she belongs here.

"What?"

Hungary decides to waste no words and kisses Ukraine's naked bosom without warning, savors her body as though Ukraine were covered in honey, so sweet is the taste of her skin. 

When she parts Ukraine's thighs, Hungary finds that she's already wet, that it takes little to please her, just being gentle. But Hungary wants to do more, to explore her as though she were a newfound land, to make her tremble with pleasure instead of fear. She wants to make Ukraine come in her tongue, to know her in every little sense.

Ukraine curls her toes and grasps the bed of flowers where she lies, unplucking petals that Hungary will later pick up on their way back. Children's games, really. 

She loves me. 

She loves me not.

The answer doesn't even matter, in the end. Russia is waiting for them, and only then Hungary remembers that while her luggage is light, her heart is heavy, that the walls have ears, that there are things better kept as secrets. 

"We're ever so glad to have you back," he says, wearing a smile bright enough to blind.

Belarus, on the other hand, gives her a chaste kiss. Her lips are cold, but there's fire on her eyes and a piercing gaze that doesn't waver, and Hungary welcomes the shiver down her spine, for it means that she's still alert, that no matter what she may see or hear, this isn't her home.

By nightfall, they even share a room, and contrary to what Hungary would believe, both Russia and Belarus' sleep is sound. No words leave their mouths, no nightmare grips their bodies, tossing them left and right. _They,_ Hungary thinks, _sleep like the dead._

Ukraine comes in the middle of the night, covers Hungary's mouth with her hand and leads her to a place where she can kiss her, so full of doubt and sheer fright that it's a wonder she doesn't scurry away. Hungary bides her time, lets Ukraine take the lead, and what happens next is worth waiting for—Ukraine kisses the corner of Hungary's mouth and fondles her chest, reaching for the folds between Hungary's legs out of her own volition.

Her touch is uncertain, but Hungary encourages her until Ukraine understands the rhythm required and how the flow of her movements can make magic happen. Like music, it's easy to tell when she hits the right notes, easy to know what harmony means when you feel it rushing through your body, from head to toes.

Hungary kisses Ukraine's fingers in appreciation, nibbles the skin on her wrist, makes a path to her shoulder. In answer, Ukraine brings Hungary's knuckles to her mouth and smiles against them, even though her attention seems to be elsewhere. "I wonder," she says again, tracing figures on Hungary's skin.

"What's that?"

"Well…"

All of a sudden, she lowers her voice until it becomes a whisper, and out of habit, Hungary does the same. "Yes?"

"I wonder whether there isn't another way," Ukraine says at last, facing the same place she's always been looking towards, her hair stirred by the winds that blow from the West.


End file.
